What Glisters
by rednightmare
Summary: Garrett is a young thief with a penchant for gold and no patience for faulty plans. Basso is a silver-tongued conman with terrible schemes, a killer smile, and one very nubile sister named Adeline.
1. In November

_**Author's Note**_**: Thanks for visiting this little tale. Before I get started, just a quick note. **_**Thief**_** has been my favorite PC series – and Garrett my favorite game character – since its creation. Anxiety over the upcoming fourth installment inspired me to quickly whip something up in honor of all the work done fleshing out this intense world so far. (And because this poor fandom needs some serious love.) **

**My story will be a collection of not-really-related vignettes – most of them focusing on Garrett, himself. I don't expect to set the man off on an epic new adventure, but am rather endeavoring to take a look at his day-to-day exploits from various points of his life. Some of them will be sequential; some won't be. We'll likely see a lot of Garrett trying to cut himself a niche in the city as a young thief, freshly freed from the Keepers' thumb. I've got an itch to experiment with some first-person (and this guy's character voice is nothing short of fabulous), so I aim to include a great deal of letter-format. We'll see how it works. **

**At any rate, thanks for your interest! I hope you find some enjoyment in this piece and that we'll soon be sneaking old Garrett through another game.**

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**WHAT GLISTERS**

There is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime and the earth is made of glass.  
-_- Ralph Waldo Emerson _

**Chapter One: In November **

The young thief sat in the back of a rickety dogcart, a wool blanket hefted up to his chin, feeling its wheels cut through the freshly-fallen woodland snow.

Garrett watched his breath condense, bending both knees up to a sunken chest. God's blood, it was colder than Caïna out here – a bitter, slushy November – with frost hardening the dirt and making Aidenwell Castle look even more dismal than the City he'd left behind. Stone walls, no doubt icy to the touch, stood stark against a thin cover of snowfall. Archer towers glowered up from the flat land, parting fir trees. Had there been a miasma of smog overhead, the place would've almost resembled home… not that this thought was a particularly comforting one. As it was, the wiry ne'er-do-well found himself sucking down air so clean it burned his sinuses. Dead grass crunched under the cart; open grey sky blocked out sunlight, blurring the horizon line into an overwhelming white mass.

He was about twenty minutes away now, depending on how well the horses' shoes held out.

Aidenwell would be military and unremarkable, the thief knew – and he could already predict how glad he'd be to leave it. The job that sent him out here was unavoidable, however. It was gracious business for an old friend. Garrett sadly did not have enough old friends in the world to entirely forsake this notion of "favors" – particularly when these favors promised an impressive jewelry haul – and so had packed up his equipment and set off yesterday morning. The small settlement was not far from their place of origin. Basso had been nosing around for weeks, apparently; four nights ago, the fellow burglar sent him a letter with instructions to rent a room in _The Wayward Fox Inn_, where they would meet and discuss further terms. That was fine with Garrett. He loathed break-necking into danger because some taffing idiot tempted him with gold. He liked having a plan – strolling into a situation loose-limbed and prepared. He also liked Basso's buxom sister, Adeline… who, in turn, liked it when her club-footed burrick of a brother had backup.

The thief wasn't familiar with Aidenwell, but he _was_ absolutely positive that a certain Boxman better not cop out.

Garrett had been trying to nap for a while, now, but found sleeping more difficult than simply soldiering on until reaching his destination. Late afternoon sun glared off snow and directly into the mean, slate-colored slits that were this youth's eyes. Aspen trees shuffled with squirrels, disturbing him. Horses snorted heavily as their iron-shod hooves struck gravel. And the man driving them breathed even _worse_ – his ugly, bovine lungs drawing huge, obnoxious gulps of air. Every awkward pebble jarred the birch wheels on their axle and sent an unpleasant jolt up the lad's backbone. Lazy flakes gathered on black sleeves and dark brown hair. Garrett could no longer feel either one of his ears, in fact, and so moodily yanked up his hood. The snow just stacked itself in the folds of his cowl.

Garrett hated the cold. He hated winter, too, and yanked the coverlet over his pointed nose. It itched.

The thief pulled out a sheaf of parchment, flattening it across both thighs. He then wetted a battered hawk quill upon his lips and began writing. In the bouncing cart, his penmanship was larger than usual and even less legible.

_Cutty_

_On business for a few days. Not dead. Will be back with merchandise. Don't close my account._

_Garrett_

Satisfied, he tore the yellowing paper in two and placed the unused portion back into his satchel. The missive was rolled up and tied with a dangling quilt string. He'd send it back with his driver for an extra silver piece. For now, however, the thief puffed warmly into his cupped hands and stuck them back beneath the cover; all ten fingers were beginning to turn pasty blue. Frostbite was an unfortunate injury for a career lockpicker. Seven or eight digits and Garrett might still make a respectable robber, but any more than that and he'd be searching for a different occupation. Not too damn likely. Besides, to be brutally honest – what non-illicit skills did he _have_? All the lad really bothered learning since childhood were the various techniques of travelling unseen: wall-scaling, skeleton keys and stealthy breathing, trapping, weaponry and how to creep _just so_ without his boot soles making noise.

He could also make porridge. That counted for something, maybe.

Garrett heaved another disagreeable sigh and thunked his head against the wooden backboard. He was going through an awful mess of trouble, the up-and-coming outlaw realized, for a chance at warming up the sheets of this two-copper conman's sister dear. It wasn't that the young man expected trouble with their upcoming mission, per say. But Basso hadn't told him Aidenwell would be icing itself over. He really hated lingering out in the cold. _Hated_ it. He sure as hell hoped Adeline would be worth all the suffering a night with her demanded.

The dogcart's left rear tire suddenly whacked into a poorly-placed rock. Everything within it shifted violently – bags, horse tack, luggage chests, an irritable master thief. Garrett cussed. Horses whinnied. The barrage of sounds sent a buck darting from the nearby thicket, long legs raking through leafless brush, antlers coated in velvet.

Face oblong, red-cheeked, witless – with a stupid expression of concern dimpling his face – the driver twisted around. He blinked. Large teeth flashed at his whip-thin, black-garbed tagalong, who was still spitting profanity. "Ho! Sorry about that, m' good sir," the simpleton apologized, strawlike bangs framing a pudgy smile. Good-natured shows of peasant camaraderie didn't endear him to the jostled thief whatsoever. In fact, he thought nothing of this empty-headed grin beyond the fact that its owner was missing his right canine. "Road ain't been cleared out in a few days, understand. S' the damn Warden patrols is what it is. They make a great roarin' mess of things just by riding down the pathway. Still together all right, then? Did I lose anythin' important back there, you reckon?"

"No. Just drive," Garrett told him, rubbing out a new bump on the base of his skull.

Fortunately for both their sanities, the chauffer did just that. "Ay, sir. Merrily, merrily! Off we go," he announced, joyfully blubberous, and whapped the reins against his Shetland mares' necks. They ploughed off again with little further issue. Aidenwell stood impatiently before them, shadowless against the noonday moor.

Garrett frowned, sharp brows knifing towards dark, vicious eyes. There was nothing interesting to study in all this hideous bright _nothingness_, though – not even another fleeing deer to distract him from feeling sour. Ah, well. He closed them. The lad leant back, readjusted his blanket, and tried vainly to meditate. He tried to clear the aggravation from his nerves; to relax the tension scrunching up both sinewy shoulders. He tried to picture how Adeline's calves would look slung up over them. Nothing came to mind, however, and so the surly thief was trapped between wanting to slog back home and a steadily increasing desire to crack Basso in his dainty nose. Ten minutes away, perhaps. All he had to occupy him was the jingle-jank of a loaded cart and frozen-over mud.

And, of course, the goddamn November cold.

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_**AFTERTHOUGHT**_**: Short first chapter to try on the character – sorry about that. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Dear Adeline

_**Author's Note**_**: Cue some letter format. This was fun to write, indeed...**

**Thanks for reading!**

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**Chapter Two: Dear Adeline**

_To My Dearest, Darling Adeline:_

_Salutations from the fair city of Aidenwell! I hope this letter finds you well, sweetest baby sister. You will be equal measures relieved and anxious, I imagine, to hear that the mundane portion of my visit is already at its end. I may now settle happily into proper business planning. And might I just say? – the brisk north country weather is perfect for a good scheme._

_You are, of course, too perceptive not to realize that I jest. This wintry place is no short of miserable, I'm afraid! Snow and ice lay upon the cobbled streets an inch thick; streetlights drip with icicles. Why, only yesterday did I watch a poor drunken warden misstep and slide into a gutter. Such a shame. Frigidness aside, this place has a certain flagstone appeal. It can't be helped, I guess – for I'd wager the local sheep might freeze were it not for their coats! Perhaps November would not be so brutal were every building in this Spartan town not built in stone. Oh, do I tire of stone. Even in midsummer, it always finds a way to be uncomfortably cool, doesn't it? And we have late autumn here! Every morning, my windowpanes are coated shut with a fresh and frosty sheet of rime. Please don't fret for my constitution, however; the inn I'm lodging at is clean, but quite modest. Unfortunately, it lacks in insulation. _

_Bah, don't mind my complaints. It's wrong for me to carry on so – quite rude to my gracious hosts, who have been truly decent sorts. Mr. and Mrs. Martin are an elderly couple, very proper, and fine innkeepers. They're wholesome, Builder-fearing people. You know the type. Kind sir was downright righteous in his youth, so he tells me, until the faithful hammer grew too big for an aging man's muscles. I believe it – very heavy hands, that greybeard. His lovely wife has got forearms like ham hocks, but she's a wonderful baker of meat pie. Fortunately, neither have a single nasty premonition about mild-mannered me. Told them I was an upcoming post writer from Bohn. Also promised their less-than-toasty establishment a generous review in the county publication, to boot! I don't want the dear folks' spirits to be overly dampened when I scurry off without an interview, but to be completely honest… better their hopes than my bones, am I right? _

_You don't suppose I'll burn for this, do you?_

_At any rate, they don't suspect a thing. No wonder; I don't exactly look or speak the part of your typical city thug, if I may say so. That should make skulking across town and into the armory easy as cranberry sauce. I hear Watch captains keep that Shield tightly under lock-and-key, but I'm not too nervous just yet. And the rewards will be well worth any toil involved. It's solid silver, a birdie told me, complete with turquoise and ruby embellishments. Sounds like it'd sit pretty on my mantle, doesn't it? Bound to be heavy as sin, though… I imagine getting the oafish thing out will be twice painful as creeping in to get it._

_Still. The temperature may be low, but morale is rather high! – for I actually write to you with fortunate news. You will recall my admitting to you, before I left, some degree of concern over the Aidenwell Guard? Well, I have found a solution! Shortly after departing The City, I wrote to an associate of mine – a most talented tradesman and dear comrade – and he has agreed to assist me in this endeavor. I expect he will arrive any day now. You remember my good friend Mr. Garrett, don't you? He sends his greetings and inquires after your health. As much as Mr. Garrett ever does, at any rate. Which isn't much. But alas, not all gentlemen thieves can be as dapper as your own charming brother._

_Still, I'm quite glad not to be on my lonesome. "Two heads are better than one," as the fishwives say – particularly when one of these heads is a cunning locksmith and the other a master thief. So, please do listen to your only sib and don't lose any sleep over the whole affair, yes? I will write as soon as I am able to let you know that I am safe and (with luck) how swimmingly the whole operation went. If all goes well, I hope to bring you and father back a fine present. And we certainly shan't need worry about rent for the Dartagans for a bit – hahah! Ah, me._

_Well, sis – it's getting right nippy in this drafty old boarding house, so I think I shall off and fetch myself some hot chocolate. Take care… and do make a note to destroy this letter if I'm caught, won't you?_

_With all my love,  
__Your Cheerful Brother,  
__BASSO _

_P.S. Don't forget to feed Polly, all right? Once in the morning and once after supper. Barking old bitch gets fearful yappish when she doesn't get her evening gruel._


	3. Martinmas Time

_**Author's Note**_**: On to chapter three! Thank you for reading.**

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**Chapter Three: Martinmas Time**

"Garrett!" Basso shouted it out, leapt from his quiet fireside table, and dashed over to pump the thief's frostbitten hand.

There was a frigid swirl of air that ripped through _The Wayward Fox_'s common room as he entered, door shutting behind him. Garrett immediately looked out-of-place. He stood there uncertainly for several moments, coalmine eyes darting about, shoulders hunched beneath a black mantle. Snow had gathered in every crease of the criminal's hood. Some of it melted into coarse fabric; some flakes wafted onto the rugless floor. The damp bottom of his cape licked at dark, hard-soled boots. He was a fairly tall man, this thief, but quite willowy; fabric bunched around a malnourished waist that didn't fill its tunic. His complexion was pale, slightly blue; forked by a sharp nose that was now wind-raw and fiery red. His hands – long, delicate fingers with swollen knuckles – were shoved into pockets somewhere, desperately trying to retain warmth.

Garrett flinched when he heard his name – belted out with such enthusiasm – and curled chin-to-chest as though Basso might take a swing. Instead, the conman reached out and nabbed one of his associate's arms. He pulled an elusive hand from its hiding place and gave the burglar such a vigorous shake that it jiggled him from wrist to ankle.

"Ah, my friend! My good old boy! I can't believe you're here," the Boxman swore, melodramatic as ever. _No doubt._ He did look genuinely surprised to greet his skulking old comrade, all toothiness and lively copper eyes. Garrett was not surprised to see Basso. He was ever himself, garbed in the standard vest-and-fencing shirt ensemble that vainly attempted to look noble. Subtlety was not in this character's vocabulary; the thief had spotted his trademark gold earring winking through a tavern window, clear as day. But it had since been blasted out of contention by that awful, kilowatt grin. Lad had a mouth like a flash bomb. It took up half the swindler's face, shrinking his orange goatee, disarming virtuous maidservants and making fellow men cringe. Knocking out an incisor or two was incredibly tempting from this close vantage point. It would be so easy. He could snatch a handful of chestnut curls, ball up a fist, and simply tilt the boy's head right into it. Temporary gratification, of course. Certainly not appropriate for a hearthside reunion. _'But, ah… what a beautiful tempor it would be.'_

"No kidding," Garrett almost said, but was cut off by another happy burst from Basso.

"Builder's blood, man, your mitts are freezing!" the lockpick cried, yanking his own fingers away. _Precisely_. The thief hated physical contact, overeager handshakes included… but Boxman's palm had been sweaty, and it warmed his.

"Oh? Maybe because I rode here in the back of a dogcart," he began to explain, only to find himself being ushered towards an alcove. Basso had seized both his well-oiled vambraces and was towing Garrett to the fire.

_The Wayward Fox_ was an unremarkable establishment. Its quarters were cramped, beds and bar shoved into two rickety stories. The main level was barely maneuverable, benches crunched closely together, rising body heat struggling to compensate for a pathetic fire. This place's eligible bodies were currently rather limited, however – consisting of one withering master, his duenna landlady-wife, a lonely beer-guzzler in the inn's far corner and our two murmuring crooks. Spent logs snapped morosely in the soot pit. Every breeze from the threshold threatened to puff them out. One could easily imagine what the mattresses would look like; short and lower-class. The lodgings were modest. The food was mediocre. The comfort was close to nonexistent. What meager privacy this place's only legitimate clients had was granted by the single stairwell, lunging overhead and dividing their table from the surrounding chamber. There was a depressing, wilting holiday wreath upon the rafter – another week and its dying shades of green would be mud-brown. _'Dreary… very, very dreary. The Keepers ought to vacation here. Heh. Maybe I'll suggest it to Orland for next winter.' _

"Come, then – sit down and thaw. We have so much to discuss. Happy Martinmas, by the way!" Another excruciating smile. Basso spoke with swooping, bardic vowels. "I didn't buy you a present, I'm afraid. But I will buy you some wine. Barkeep?"

The conman snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and purchased them a bitter, Christmastime red. He popped its cork, dealt out two wooden goblets, poured himself a generous cupful and then passed the bottle to his partner. Garrett rolled it about. He gave it a sniff. Judging the liquor acceptable, he completely ignored his glass and took a swig directly from the neck. Claret splashed over strong teeth to the back of the thief's tongue, staining them a blood color. Boxman shot him a critical look, irritated – but decided that companionship was worth more than a belly full of alcohol and let it slide.

"Well, now that you've settled in, let's talk about this little job," he began, spreading both forearms across the table and folding his hands. "I trust you read my letter in full?"

"I skimmed the important parts," Garrett replied – mostly to nettle Basso, who suffered the sad condition of diehard optimism. He looped an elbow over his chair's back. The wine bottle dangled between two fingers.

Boxman gave him a frown.

"I hope you're joking. I thought it was all rather important. Particularly the bit about jewel-encrusted ceremonial shields," he added, thick eyebrows knitted in the center of his forehead. Another ten seconds of severity passed before the conman was back to gleeful conspiracy. "Ah, well. We are in astounding luck, you know! I was poking around city hall's history archives last night and you'll never guess what I found." Basso announced his answer before Garrett could even try. Schoolyard victory was plastered across the criminal's merry face. "A map of the basement. Fully detailed. There stand a total of three access hallways that are lightly policed and run right to the vault, itself."

The thief tilted his head to the left and forced an indifferent, uncommunicative grin, showing teeth doused in crimson. There was something dreadfully familiar about him after all this time, but it was something not fully human. Garrett was a city coyote with torn ears and a runner's limp, skulking through alleyways and eating spinsters' housecats.

"What are you paying me, Boxman?" was always a cutpurse's foremost concern.

"Well, I can't very well cut the Aidenwell Signet Shield in half, can I?" Basso pushed a dry chuckle from his gut. He took a robust gulp from the waiting goblet. "Hammerites might be able to, I suppose, but for a couple of sinners like you and I? Not likely! No, no. There's an interested buyer in Blackbrook who's contacted me about this opportunity. It will be difficult to have the item shuttled there given our current political troubles, of course, but I'm sure I'll manage. He'll melt it down and gift me the proceeds. When I receive my compensation – and it's grand compensation, mind you, so don't mind the short delay – I'd be glad to float you… say, a hefty thirty percent?"

The young man knew his selfish accomplice better than to assume he'd bite on such a low offer, and initiated this arrangement fully prepared to dish out more. So, naturally, he was left quite nonplussed when Garrett said "Fine," crossed his arms, and leant back in the cushionless seat. It creaked. "But I want first-pick at any extra loot we bag. I also want a guarantee you'll hand me a fair share once you've been reimbursed. And there's one more thing."

The Boxman was only too happy to give his shockingly agreeable ally whatever it was he may have wanted. "Why. Absolutely. Yes, of course," he swore, motioning for the serving girl to bring them a breadbasket. "Name what you want, dear friend, and I'll do my best to see you have it."

"Your sister," the thief said, quite matter-of-fact, and watched Basso stare at him without comprehension.

"My sister," the con echoed. His light brown eyes were blank, blinking. His chin was hanging above his slackened hands.

"Adeline," Garrett added for his benefit. Boxman blinked again. A wicker bowl was brought from the kitchens, covered in blue napkins, fresh wheat steaming beneath. It smelled delicious. The thief hadn't eaten since yestereve, and felt his stomach give a disgruntled kick.

His 'dear friend' didn't seem to notice. He gave the assortment of multigrain no particular mind, but proceeded to gaze at Garrett mildly – quite near _through_ him, actually – tablecloth rumpling beneath his arms. "Adeline, yes. What about her?"

"I want you to introduce me to her," the ex-Acolyte told him, seeing no need to mince words. He flipped open the basket, snatched a loaf of sourdough and tore it in two, stuffing it into his mouth. Crumbs sprinkled the counter.

Basso bored on for another few seconds, then crackled to laughter.

"Oh, good God! For a minute, I thought you were going to ask me for a dowry!" The conman, relieved beyond belief, wrapped an arm around his torso and howled for a time. He dabbled at wet tear ducts with a handkerchief before sliding over the balmy dish and snatching a piece. Pumpernickel folded between his hands. A palm fluttered over his fast-beating heard. "Oh. Oh, Builder. Introduce you? Of course I will. Hah-hah! The things we think. Sure. It might be nice to have her sit down and actually speak with you, for a change – I couldn't really call your last meeting an 'introduction,' after all." (Garrett couldn't agree more. He'd crashed feet-first through one of Boxman's pantry widows in the dead of night about two years ago, spooked, begging Basso to hide him from a slew of angry pagan scouts. The young bandit had broken no less than three plates in the process and given pretty redhead Adeline the scare of her well-endowed, peasantish life.) "Indeed, indeed," her brother sighed, proceeding. "Well. I'd be pleased to. And, conditions being met, am I wrong in thinking that also means we have ourselves a deal?"

The thief tossed his bread crust onto the table, grinned, and hefted his wine bottle. It sloshed. They clinked.

"Ah, splendid," Boxman proclaimed. He smiled at Garrett and set a neatly-folded diagram between them. "Now I have only one more question for you, my good man."

The thief nodded, gesturing 'yes' with a ragged strip of rye. "Let's hear it."

"All these years, all these exploits… don't you have any other clothes?" Basso jeered, jerked a thumb at Garrett's hood, and earned himself a boot toe right in the shin.


	4. The Lady's Response

_**Author's Note**_**: As always, thanks for reading!**

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**Chapter Four: The Lady's Response**

_Dear Basso,_

_Your letter arrived two nights ago, but I only just have the time to write back. Apologies for the wait, favorite brother of mine. I hope you haven't been worried. But Lady Dartagan has run my poor fingers ragged in the wash this whole week and now I understand that I'm to stitch young Geoffrey Jr. a fresh winter coat. Fine thing. He spat in my shoes yesterday, horrid brat, and yet still must I sew him up a bonny new wardrobe. How that cow mother of his expects me to find time for needlework when I'm sopped to my shoulders in suds water scrubbing out her unmentionables, I'll never know. _

_Hah. And dear Father is, of course, no help at all. I suppose I can't hold it entirely against him this time; we've had rain here every morning since you left, see. Gutters burble over, streets flush themselves out, the air grows damp and his gods-blasted rheumatism is acting up. He's sleepwalking again, too – trundling around at least twice a night, knocking things about, carrying on as he does. Making an awful mess of things. Shattering vases, grumbling, waking babies in the wee hours… quite a mess. Our poor dormouse neighbors downstairs have even begun to complain. It's no better when he's alert and speaking to me, either. And, ah… mark you, Basso: if I have to make up ONE more lie to cover your tracks when that irritable man asks what his lazy son's about, I swear I'll lose my marbles. Or more likely, he'll lose his! Alack, I don't know what Mother – rest her blighted soul – ever saw in the hoary-eyed fool. Well. Beyond a city clerk's salary, at any rate._

_Ah, my brother. I swear. The more time I am forced to spend with our sideaways old Pa, the more I think I'll go and get myself married off. Or join a convent. But the thought of living on potatoes, leafy greens and beets irks my stomach something fierce. And I'm fair sure one of the nunish requirements around these parts is "respect thine parents." I've straight-up done myself in on that front, haven't I?_

_Oh. One more bit of sunshiney news: our roof has sprung a leak. Stuck the hole up with a square of cloth and horse glue but I doubt it will hold much longer. Please write back if you have any ideas, for I tire of slinging full buckets about, and I'm sure dripping rafters won't improve Father's lovely disposition. Or you could just come home and fix the bloody thing. Preferably the latter._

_That said – you best be heading back this way soon, are we straight? I'd rather have an extra pair of hands tinkering about than a "small fortune" if it's looking to be as small as your last crackpot scheme. Shield of Aidenwell, wasn't it? Well, I'll be more apt to vest faith in your delusions of grandeur when I see this wondrous thing. What would you even do with a silver buckler, by the way – mount it above our fireplace? Whatever would we say? I suppose we could tell Father you'd been knighted by the mayor's own men. Yes, Squire Basso – christened for bravery and chivalrous manners! Heheh! Oh, can't you just imagine his face? Graying bugger'd probably drop dead where he stood. _

_Ah, yes. "Dead" is a fine way for us to come to my next topic. Don't bunch up your knickers over that dirty little letter; I burned it ahead of time. (You know – just on the off-chance your locksmith fingers aren't as quick as you'd have the ladies believe.) Don't get yourself into a fuss over slobbery Poll, neither. Homely thing's been quiet as a lamb. Taken to sleeping balled up on my feet, actually, which would normally earn her a boot in the ribs were this house not getting so wretched cool. Told you she's always liked me better, didn't I?_

_Mr. Garrett – remind me. Is he the fat one, or the one who broke all grandmama's good china?_

_Whoever. Suppose I am glad to hear you'll have a lookout, Basso. Lord knows how many cauldrons you'd go plunging into were it not for the rest of us around here constantly pulling your boots out of the fire. You recall what happened last time we were fixing to be wealthy, don't you? I know I don't have to conjure up that hammer smashing through our cellar. Goes without saying that if you ever try some breakneck nonsense like that again and drag it back to this doorstep, I'll skin you like a cat with mange – doesn't it? Trust me, brother, when I tell you I've got a perfect paring knife to do the job._

_Well, guess I'll leave you to ponder that for awhile. I've prattled on plenty long enough. My hands hurt like hellfire after tending to all those garments and scribbling away with this quill is no kind of proper medicine. If I don't hear from you within the next week, I'll go ahead and figure you're in the thick of it. And if you don't send word home within a month, I'll begin thinking you're rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere. So do find a wee bit of time to let me know you're not feeding worms, will you? I'm sure all the lovesick blokes in South Quarter that come a' calling would like advance notice if they needn't worry about trouble from you any longer. And Father would probably drop his airs and dig up the stockyard to see where you buried that 'emergency fund.' Hahah! Oh, yes – he's still on about that, and I'll be damned if I let him forget it._

_Godspeed and best fortunes, my brother the taffer. Stay warm and please try to keep your nose attached to your face._

_With a final note not to do anything overly stupid,  
__Your Loving Sister,  
__ADELINE_


	5. Foxprints

**_Author's Note_: I… yeah, I'm just going to… leave this here… **

**-Drops chapter, flash bombs, flees-**

**Happy holidays, you taffers! Just a planning chapter this round; heist begins the next full installment. Thanks for reading and (where so applies) reviewing!**

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**Chapter Five: Foxprints **

The thief ran, and left his footprints in the snow.

Cold, cold – hindsight: black suede on virgin white was a horrible mix – and Garrett could see the crystals in his breath with every lope. Even at this casual pace, Aidenwell's spiteful November seared up nasal passages and cramped the man's lungs; breeze through ash branches bit his nose an uncomfortable red and made it drip. Their setting sun provided little warmth, a fickle orange glow lit askance against aspen bark and these gentle countryside slopes. White, indeed. _Entirely_ too much white, he thought… fat, slowly-wafting wet flakes from above; small ice showers after each partridge or woodpecker rustle in the canopy; four inches of crunching fresh groundcover. You could hardly disappear against all this brightness save for the purest shadow or those rare churning, cloudy nights. Tonight was not one of them. The air was so clear it scraped one's insides raw. Every step pressed a crisp, perfect boot mark in the earth.

You could trace the treads of a dozen animals who'd crossed here before: deer toes, rabbit haunches, fishbone tracks of sparrows hunting grain, fox paws. The shapeless, stupid, stumbling prints where – about six hours ago – Basso had come stamping up this very thicket, searching for cracks in flagstone walls.

"_There's no way in 'round back, I'm telling you,"_ or so the Boxman had sworn, winded from his hike, wool mittens and patchy coat damp. A glaze of snowfall clung to reddish curls. He looked especially miserable in the peasantish, oil lamp light of their rented headquarters. _"Slogged all up and down those barricades; there's not so much as a drainage grate or a wee little patch of loose bricks. And that's fact. Free to take a gander if you want, mate, but you're just wasting your time. I'd rather find some dinner and take a stab at the shield eve after tomorrow's. It'll keep 'till then. Get some shovels and tunnel in – I don't know. Use some burrick acid, maybe. No, that would make too much of a smell. You know, we'll think of something. Besides!" _A theatrical shiver made him stutter. Two fists thumped together; he huffed vainly into them. _"It's b-bitter as hell out there!"_

Three definitive claims were made, and Garrett knew exactly one was true between them. These options were plain: the weather's unpleasant, a sunny locksmith's assessments are always facts, and there's no alternate route into Aidenwell Castle courtyard.

The thief doubted the final and scoffed at the second, but he'd agree with this: it _is_ bloody damn cold out here.

So – in a grand culmination of skill, curiosity, and simply doubting Basso knew a loose brick from a burrick's ass – Garrett tossed up his hood, dragged Boxman off _The Wayward Fox_'s stoop, and dashed for the rear of those drab grey bulwarks.

Aidenwell's local terrain was a mix of thin woodland and ranches – terrain that might have been pretty in any other season, when tilled land wasn't frosted-over and trees hadn't shed their bulk. Quaint but dreary pastorals would have to do. And it must be said: Garrett felt slightly out of his element amongst these bushes and open slopes. He preferred the claustrophobic, madcap twists of City streets – where ten thousand nooks, gutters and rooftops offered refuge to a hundred anonymous thieves. Granted, this farm town was hardly Pagan country. Beyond his home's stone walls towered a dangerous folktale realm of thistles, moss and vines… shadows, hot and deadly thick, that choked any poor soul who did not carry machetes, swords, medicine, fire. _Here_ was dull, but less potentially lethal. Here they need not sweat every step that might land upon a viper or wilder trap. Here they need not listen with bristling hackles for otherworldly chants or tribal horns. Apparently, such a robust military presence was enough to soothe the locals' fear of savages, too … unsurprising, as he'd learned countless times that ceremony and pomp always outweigh _truth_ when it comes to the panicky public.

But the old rule didn't fit everyone. At least not during heists, because _"Builder's teeth, man! I don't want to hear this _now_!"_ Boxman cried when Garrett had listed "low chance of Pagans eating our drumsticks" as an upside of this clumsy venture.

Though the man might've been a mediocre scout and a terrible sneak-thief, you had to hand that firebug dandy this: he did an admirable job keeping up. Basso looked nervous as they sprinted through thorned trees; his eyes shone in the dark, adrenaline reflecting new snow. Digits fiddled with jacket buttons and wormed into sleeves. They made good time against a creeping nightfall; as the sky deepened overhead, pinks fading to purples then star-dotted blues, two tower perimeters had already been searched. Garrett flitted through clearings with hard soles silent upon all but the driest foliage. Boxman hopped brambles and scoured for sewer openings without complaint. He wouldn't shut his trap, though. The master thief lunged ahead to work, and his arsonist coconspirator kept whispering away, lips motored by a dozen mission anxieties and giddy excitement at this very lucrative prospect. Just as well, though. Best to get it all out now, where patrolling archers could not overhear them – for if Basso babbled like this _inside_ the fortress, Garrett was going to demand more than a measly thirty percent and family introduction as payment.

And he might just stitch the taffer's mouth, besides.

"Told you, old boy. I did, didn't I?" the conman noted, propping himself against a flaking locust tree. Mist puffed around every word. Garrett, arms crossed, scowled at his feet in a shadow of nearby wall. "Tight as a Hammer wife's arse. Not a hole to be found. Wells will be all frozen up this time of year, too. Think we could hitch a ladder and get over it somehow? I mean, probably be full of arrows five heroic steps and a wink in, but…"

Coal eyes squinted, calculated, refocused. Ignoring Boxman's evaluation, the thief picked himself out a sturdy-looking birch – rounded it twice, tossed one edge of cape about his neck to keep it there – and then, taking little more than a terse suck of air, jumped forward. He was halfway up the trunk within a blink and a swallowed question. He'd swung neatly onto a bough, knees bent and weight balanced, before "The hell are you doing up there?" even occurred to his compatriot.

"What do you see?" Basso pressed – his whisper barely a whisper by this point – and peered up after Garrett, perched forty feet overhead. His grated boots were perfectly still on a thin limb. A few leaves lingering on high branches fluttered down.

"The courtyard. Armory annexed to the barracks. Single-man wall patrol thrice. It's decent security."

"Eyeball any sheds? The maps mentioned sheds. Any place that looks like it ought to have tunnels to the basement…? There damn well _better_ be tunnels to the basement, is all I can say. You wouldn't believe how hard I scrounged for these bleeding-"

"Two outbuildings – small, wood. Leaning roofs. One of them's sunk partway into the ground. Looks like… I don't know." He winced, knife nose wrinkling, trying to see father. It was only somewhat successful. "Cold storage, maybe. Tools? Hard to tell."

"What about verandas? Nobles love verandas. If there was a veranda, I bet we could forget Plan A altogether. And who really wants to go crawling through ancient passages, besides? Me, I'd much rather-"

"It's a garrison," Garrett hissed. "They don't build verandas."

"Are you sure? Sometimes those verandas can be tricky. Once I fell right off one – Lady Rumford's – swore it was a patio, and then-"

"I'm sure."

"That's a shame. Well. How about liquor cellars? I could try disguising myself as a -"

But the spotter was tired of answering his partner's random wonderings. Icy tree peelings stuck to his palms where they'd grappled down, one beside each shoe. Wind nibbled bare fingers unkindly. The wine from this afternoon, claret and buttery, failed to keep his insides warm; long bones and low body fat let every gust bite at his marrow, a familiar sting. Temperature drops compounded with Boxman's prattling didn't work miracles on Garrett's mood. He tossed an impatient look down through the twigs.

"Get up here."

Basso stared for a moment – head cocked, face quizzical – and laughed his jovial, tittering laugh.

Then, following three heartbeats and no response snicker, that winning smile dropped flat. "Oh. Wait. You're serious, aren't you?"

Garrett grunted.

Looking slightly green but determined as ever, Boxman squared himself, soldiered his chin, and – with a bracing "All right, then!" – made a move for the trunk. It wasn't graceful. Bark scraped off in unskilled, clammy hands; he'd slide and drop off, cussing. Four determined attempts later, the conman finally managed to hook an upper limb and clamber awkwardly up, puffing, boot toes kicking for leverage they never found. He slung one elbow around Garrett's branch and decided it was far enough. The thief glanced thinly at his floundering compatriot – dangling there, cherry-faced – wondered briefly how this addled child could possibly be related to a wholesome, beauteous creature like Adeline, and turned attentions back to plotting.

"Right," Basso huffed out, wincing, craning to see from the safety of a knothole step. There was an unidentified smudge on his cheek and scrapes littering the awful climber's hands. "Right, right, right. Let's see what we have here."

Aidenwell proper crouched tidily around the sparse castle's backdrops. Farmland stretched out in every direction. It was late enough that moonlight against unshoveled snow glowed more powerfully than lamps, and the sparkling air carried sound farther than a professional creeper like Mister Garrett was comfortable with. The thief scanned their surroundings with glinting eyes and an unrevealing expression. Boxman, too, took note; his ultimate conclusion was a gnawed lip, a _'hmmn,'_ and a five-minute silence. They watched a guard shift change, a maid run outside to scoop two buckets of good melting snow, and a chainmailed archer scratch his ass and spit off the northwest tower far beyond.

"You know, I'm seeing and I'm thinking, taff. How we really ought to go about this is to enter separately, then meet up somewhere within to snatch that shield," Basso suggested – his first wise idea since they'd met this morning in that drab inn lounge. "Infiltration isn't really my area of expertise, and the security seems inconvenient. So I'll tell you what. After we're done here, I'll break into a sartor's somewhere roundabout and patch myself together a precious little butler's outfit. Can't imagine bulldogs are any smarter here than back home, for all the ice and steel. Should be able to waltz right in the servant's entrance… knock on their door at seven sharp tomorrow night, say I'm the waiting staff commissioner. No trouble in it." He clucked his tongue… as best the swindler could, at any rate, what with both arms wrapped messily around a shaking branch. "Meanwhile, you… you can do your famous window-and-catwalk act. Maybe I can cause a stir by the kitchen, help you get inside just there."

Boxman couldn't point with his fingers clutching so, but Garrett didn't need a visual guide. He'd honed in on the low-laying glass moments ago; fragile panes opened over baking ovens, it looked like from the smoke, and could be reached easily via a nearby lean-to.

"That won't be a problem. What sort of stir?"

"Can't know right now, naturally. You have to make these sort of situations happen as they fit. But I'll surely think of something. Maybe a harmless little fire?"

"No. No, no and no. None of your god-damned _fires_." (Garrett remembered what happened last time. A mislaid flare had "triggered prematurely" too near a tar barrel, so said the City papers – almost scorched two Auldale blocks to cinders, sparking ash so high no one noticed an amateur series of break-ins across Jeweler Street. Wardens ran water pails from the Docks District, hustled frightened aristocrats away, lugged expensive paintings and sculptures and instruments to safety… they simply didn't have time to hunt down diamond-thieves. Nor did they have time to spot the dapper, only slightly-singed man on Lady Valerius's Opera House roof – stuffed burlap sack at one side, sapphire necklace spinning on one finger – watching hell swallow rich homes whole with a delicious grin on his face.)

Basso occasionally fashioned himself as an "alchemical hobbyist," but anyone who'd met the jackdaw had probably inferred that was only a bad cover-term for "raving pyromaniac." Frigid as he was at present, weedy Garrett had no intentions of springing over this wall and into a manmade blaze, dashing out with arms full of random silver cutlery and charred cape. Boxman might've looked every part the skipping bard, but there was a malice in his copper eyes drawn out by burning – a dark seed unburied upon carmine licks of flame. Everyone had their tastes and perversions, the ex-Keeper thought; he didn't judge a man by his quirks, but _this_ quirk was a particularly perilous one. And the thief knew well that a pleasant personality in no way meant chipper Basso wasn't, at his core, a complete madman like the rest of them.

"Fine, fine," the _alchemical hobbyist_ mumbled. "No fires. My distractions will be purely non-flammable. Still, it'll be child's play."

"Child's play. And afterwards, I'll be doing what, exactly? All the work? – while you prance around in coattails?" The thief snorted. His molars began to cackle in a vindictive howl of air, and he had to bite them down. Some busybody grey squirrel shot them the evil eye from a neighboring bur.

"Not a bit! You just make it so I can get my picks in that vault. Clear a path, sniff us out a tunnel… do what you do, Garrett," Basso said, simple and curt. "Here – what say we come up with a call or a signal? You can send me a wave once it's safe and I'll scurry down to the basement. Wherever it is."

"Can you whistle?"

Amber eyes looked offended. "Can I whistle!"

"Listen for two whippoorwills then. If you can meet me quickly, mimic one back. If not, Bob White and I'll wait an hour and try again. But if I hear nothing," Garrett warned, face sharp and lips chapped, "I'm assuming you got yourself collared and I'm leaving."

"That sounds dory, mate. Oh, but hold on. We should have an emergency flag if something goes wrong. Crow caw?" Boxman tried, quirking a brow. Their limb rattled as he readjusted; the cattier criminal grabbed onto a stick overhead to maintain his footing. "Should be an easy one to remember."

"Too many crows around here. Won't work."

"Hoot-owl?"

"Too conspicuous. Too hard to make convincing."

"Trickster's beard, man, I'm running out of birds." His brow furrowed. It was an off-puttingly childish gesture. "What about one good, whistle, then? One five-second solid. Start low, swoop high?" was the conman's suggestion, to which his accomplice nodded. "Excellent. Well, that's decided. Now. Anything else we should discuss while we're out here, freezing our toes off?"

"Not that comes to mind. Not if you know what you're going to be doing. Me – I've got my own ways to sweep this place out." A typical promise; a legitimate given. For all he'd stolen, Garrett's sin had never been greed; gold comes and goes, any true thief knows, easy as water or winter cold. His sin was always – with certainly – pride. Not in the preening vain of royal eagles or basking lions, but in the venomous staying power of a smug, black snake.

"Figured you would, mate. When you get back to the _Fox_, take our map and whatever you need from my supply packs. Plenty of specialty arrows. Then might as well get some rest, yeah? You're a hell of a roof-hopper, Garrett, but your knees'll be shot by thirty with your schedule."

The observation made him frown – not from irritation, but because there was more than a sliver of truth in that statement. Only a stone's throw over twenty years, and already the thief's joints were starting to creak, lock and ache at the oddest times. No use moaning over it. Spend half your nights crouching in rafter beams, motionless for hours, and early arthritis was only to be expected. He kept loose well enough to ignore it for another decade, at least. Then – one overflowing safebox of coinage, pretty rubies, and exotic spices later – maybe a greyer version of himself could retire in high style. Distant imaginings, of course… but, given his current conquest record, perfectly feasible ones.

"You deal with that shield vault, Boxman. I'll worry about the passages. And my knees."

Basso shrugged a shoulder to his ear – the other had already been pinned there, bearing an unjust amount of its owner's weight. "Fair enough. You get my meaning. Just stay keen for the job and leave all the safe-cracking to me."

"Sure you can handle it?"

"My cynical friend – with you backing me, there's nothing I can't handle," their sad partnership's mastermind announced – every confidence in the world – and forced another one of those blood-curdling smiles.

The bark split; Boxman sunk his claws into birch flesh, shaving off green, screeching inelegantly back towards the ground.

"Except trees," Basso spluttered, but by that point, his soles were already in fresh snow; dirt and wood chips covered the con's trousers, vest, hands.

Garrett was alone.

"Taffing hell," he said; the thief jumped down in the dark.


	6. Items of Curiosity

**Chapter Six: Items of Curiosity **

_Farkus_

_I don't have a lot of time, so this request will be short and clear._

_I'm on a job out-of-town and there's a couple of things I want from you. Normally I'd ask Cutty to handle my shipping, but the old man's mind has been growing dustier these days and this is finesse work, so I'm trusting you can procure them for me._

_I can't tell you precisely what the take will be, both because it's a sensitive package and because I haven't seen the item for myself. Before you call this an amateur move, let me assure you the prize is a fairly well-known artifact. I know a practical man doesn't like dealing in maybes or vague feeds, but cut me extra faith on this one; it will pay for itself. I'm working with a talented associate and he has guaranteed success – much as we ever can, that is. But I don't hit straw man vaults. This venture will be profitable, and you'll want exclusive rights to what I've got to fence afterwards. Which, should my request be met and no problems throw stones into our gears, you'll have._

_I need for you to send me one of those trick frames. Flat, square-shaped, roughly the size of a Watch buckler. Sliding latch on the crate, if you can. Stuff it with hay or paper to keep rattling down. And if you could sticker a painting on the outside – I don't care what it's of; something that won't draw much attention in noble halls (any more 'tasteful nudes' available?) – that would be nice of you. Have a courier deliver it to Aidenwell Castle, addressed "To The Master Staff Commissioner." (Don't ask.) No returns. No benefactor. I'll need access on-site, so novice locks should do the trick – just enough to keep any nosy haulers from tampering with it. You know what I'm looking for._

_Here's the rough spot. I need the box as soon as possible – two mornings from now (early) by the latest; tomorrow night, preferably. Found a fast rider who's already assured me you'll have this letter by tonight, so the response is on you. Short notice, I realize, but you know how the tides change in business like this. The merchandise I pawn at your office will be at least threefold worth whatever you have to tip the mail carrier. _

_I understand this is an unusual request, so I hope you understand I wouldn't ask if it wasn't worth it. You'll be paid. Full commission if the job goes bust; double if it doesn't. And, if you can dig up a trustworthy footpad who'll give the local chapel bell one ring once his drop's made, I'll perform a like service for another of your clients free of charge._

_You have nothing to lose – and I'll be hunting my mark by the time you open this message – so I'm confident you'll come through. Don't disappoint me. I've never dodged a lead from you, Farkus; while I may not be one of your regulars, I can be. Cutty's memory isn't getting any younger – neither are his lungs. I reckon he'll be sane enough to ringlead a flock another year, maybe; five at most (and that's pushing it). My point: one day soon, I'll be shopping for a new full-time hook. Do this favor well, and I foresee a long and mutually beneficial arrangement between you and I. When Ramirez fades, and all our City's petty Wardens and smugglers and lawmen recognize they contend with the greatest thief to ever run their rooftops, you will want to be in his inner circle. _

_And don't tell Cutty about this, all right? Kooky old badger's feelings are still sore from that theatre heist I pulled for Ramien last month. _

_Garrett_


End file.
